


The Witch and the Wolf

by Octobig



Category: Divinity: Original Sin (Video Games), Divinity: Original Sin 2
Genre: F/M, First Time, Masturbation, Slow Burn, Smut, spoilers for the entire main game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-04-03 15:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octobig/pseuds/Octobig
Summary: Veronika has always led a quiet, easy life in the woods -- far away from anyone who could be hurt or disturbed by her magic.But her books, her plants, and her way of life gets uprooted as she's torn away from the safety of her home by Magisters, who claim her powers are even greater than she thought. She never expected to fall in line with powerful undead, divine beings, outlaw pirates, wayward bards, and kings and assassins - but here she is.And out there, a world that needs saving.[Or alternatively: Veronika goes into the big bad world and tames the biggest, baddest wolf in it.]





	1. Shackled at Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MoonRead (moonart)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonart/gifts).



> Veronika is a female human Godwoken with the [SCHOLAR] and [OUTLAW] tags, and the skills of a Witch. She's exceptionally good at Blood Magic, rather shy in nature, and the Cello accompanies her in battle.
> 
> For a picture of Veronika, [click here](http://mamoon26.tumblr.com/post/171725555082/my-godwoken-witch-veronika-from-dos2-with-her).
> 
> She also belongs to the insanely talented [Moon](https://linktr.ee/moon__illustrations). Moon, this one's for you. Enjoy! ♥

**Chapter 1**

**In which the witch trips over her own feet and vomits ( _a lot_ ).**

 

Ships have never been Veronika’s favorite.

One hand clutched over her stomach, she stumbles through the dark, dank hold, ignoring the Magisters eying her warily. The heavy collar at her throat pulses, adding another layer of discomfort to the nausea that’s already threatening to overtake her.

The smells from the kitchen make it even worse.

She leans forward briefly, pressing her palm to her mouth and closing her eyes.

_I wish I was home._

But rarely ever do wishes come true.

Feeling dizzy and disoriented, she vaguely registers the presence of other people in the hold. Prisoners, like her, with worn, dirty gray clothes, and collars tight around their necks.

When the ship crashes through another big wave, it becomes too much.

Panicked, Veronika wipes the sweat off her brow and tries to find a quiet corner. A place where she can ignore the heftiness of the waves that pound against the hull, and the rolling of the ship that accompanies it.

Skipping past an elf at a table rolling dice, she pushes past another Magister who merely grunts at her presence, and huddles over in a corner.

Presses her forehead against the cool wood and sighs, long and deep, steeling her nerves. Her knuckles are white, fingers clenched into tight fists.

 _Think of the forest_ , she tells herself. _Think of the trees._

_Of the flowers in the meadow; of the leaves coloring the sky gold and red._

The nausea doesn’t recede fully but the dizziness does, and she manages to calm herself down, breath by even breath.

 _That_ _’s it_ , she encourages herself. _You can do this._

She’s about to rise back to her feet, mouth open on a shuddery exhale, when a heavy hand lands upon her shoulder.

Too affected by her seasickness, she’s not fast enough to turn around on the spot. She turns, slowly, as the hand stays where it is, bleeding its warmth into her shoulder through the thin fabric of her shirt.

She half-expects another angry Magister behind her.

But it turns out to be another prisoner; a man.

He looks a little worse for wear; scruffy and unkept, and a familiar collar balancing around his neck. But his eyes are warm, friendly, and as green as the forest that she so fondly remembers.

“Hey,” he says, voice a gravelly whisper, “you’ve got something on you.”

Veronika blinks at him, her nausea temporarily forgotten.

He winks, leaning in and hooking one of his fingers under her collar. He gives it a tug, canting it over to the other side, and nods once in approval.

“Pinches less that way, right?” he asks with a playful smile, head tilted to the side.

Veronika blinks at him, briefly touching her hand to her throat. It _does_ hurt less, somehow.

“Ah,” she says slowly, “yes. Uh, thank you.”

He winks, _again_ , and then holds his arm out towards her in offering. She hesitates for a moment, but takes his hand in the end; she’s still not feeling well, and he’s somehow looking at her as if she’s the center of his world.

It makes her blush.

Under her slender fingers, his own are rough as he pulls her up - scarred and bruised, callouses and all.

Veronika, still unsteady on her feet, staggers into him, one hand pressed to his chest.

Surprise flutters over his features but he recovers quickly, moving one hand to her waist to help restore her balance.

“There you go,” he murmurs, a touch fond.

She stares up at him, and briefly examines the details of his face.

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the salt-and-pepper of the hair curling around his shoulders. The beard hiding the corners of his smile, and the earrings glittering at his earlobes.

He stares back, and she feels it, then.

Senses it, even though the waves are still crashing around them; even though she has a headache and trembling, unsteady hands.

_Magic._

Through the smell of rope oil, salty air, and heady varnish, she catches the whiff of magic on the man before her. Senses the blood pumping through his veins, brimming with potential.

Her hand is still on his chest, over his heart, and his is still on her waist, featherlight.

“Are you - ” he starts, but a filthy sound suddenly interrupts them.

Veronika turns her head, taking a step away from her impromptu rescuer. The loss of warmth over her hip is oddly noticeable.

Behind her stands yet another Magister; one who’s apparently just spit onto the wooden deck. She wrinkles her nose at him while he glowers back, anger in his eyes.

“Don’t mind Vik,” the green-eyed man says, another toothy grin playing at his lips while he seemingly waves the Magister away. “Many, many moons ago, I was once his commander. He still hasn’t gotten over it.”

The Magister’s face sours, and he menacingly draws a finger across his throat in threat.

“Yeah, yeah,” the man mutters. “All Johnny Big-Pants now that you’ve got a bigger sword, eh?”

Veronika swallows thickly, looking between the two of them.

 _I should go_ , she thinks, _both of them look dangerous. I shouldn_ _’t stay. I shouldn’t -_

“Hey, you!” the Magister barks, pointing at her. “What are you conspiring about? What’s your name?”

Her voice croaks as she speaks. “Veronika,” she manages to say. “It’s – it’s Veronika.”

The Magister pulls a notebook out of his voluminous robes, scribbling something down. He looks triumphantly angry, as if he caught her doing something illegal rather than trying to find a place to be sick in peace, and he closes the notebook with a snap of the spine.

“Away with you, then,” he says, tone dismissive and eyes sharp.

On the other side of her, the man she stumbled into laughs, teeth glittering white against the darkness of his beard. He leans back against the wall of the corridor with flair, pressing a finger to his lips.

“Go on,” he whispers to her. “I’ll be fine.”

Veronika briefly ponders that he doesn’t seem the type to be worried about - with the way he towers over her, and the heavy, bulky frame of his chest. Those scar-crossed, big hands. But his teasing comment seems gentle, all-in-all.

“Ah,” he says then, a little louder, “didn’t give you _my_ name yet did I, Vik? It’s Ifan, in case you forgot.”

But he’s looking straight at her while he says it.

“Ifan ben-Mezd,” he adds, and his grin grows softer.

The Magister grumbles another insult, and Veronika desperately searches for something to say back to him.

Anything.

But then there is a lurch of nausea pulling at the pit of her stomach as the ship makes an unexpected tumble, and that has her stumbling away from the corridor and Ifan’s strange presence in search of the nearest bucket.

Through a haze of pain and a splitting headache, Veronika’s last fleeting thought before she throws up is still one of hope.

_Maybe he could be a friend in this cruel world._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come and find me [on tumblr](http://octobig.tumblr.com/)
> 
> **If you enjoyed this, please consider clicking the kudos button! It makes my day :) ♥**


	2. Forced into Fort Joy

**Chapter 2**

**In which the witch tries to find her bearings and the wolf properly introduces himself, this time around.**

 

Arriving at Reaper’s Isle is one big mess.

Veronika wakes up shivering on a beach, clothes soaked through and her long hair tangled and rough with sand. The ship they were on long since disappeared to the bottom of the sea; sunken.

In her mind swirl half-thoughts - she isn’t even sure whether they are memories or not. Attacked by Voidwoken, running through a burning wreck of a ship to save her fellow prisoners; blood and smoke and _fire_ burning in her mouth.

And then after the burning came the drowning; sinking into an endless blue, her lungs clogged with water, and a distant voice lifting her up.

Saving her life.

(She doesn’t even want to think about what that _thing_ could have been if it was real. She knew the forests spirits well, back at her home, but this felt infinitely larger and more powerful.)

And as she stumbles through the wilderness, looking for any signs of life, it only gets harsher.

She finds Fort Joy, immediately thrown into the cruelty of the Magister’s regime - tongues cut out for barely-there-betrayals, and Sourcerers without food, warmth, shelter or kindness. Collared and imprisoned or Purged, disappearing from the canvas of life and morphing into silent statues.

All of it scares her.

The people, the pain, the fact that she could be stuck here for the rest of her life.

It’s enough to make her want to cry; her heart weeps for this place. Fort _Joy_ , indeed.

Hesitantly, she tries to approach other people who seem even remotely friendly. Tries to share her food, and tries to offer healing where she can. Few respond positively; most of them are afraid of each other as much as they are of the Magisters overseeing them.

And others use their fear to overpower or bully others.

Veronika _does_ find the survivors from the ship; the ones she helped rescue.

There’s a sweet woman named Lohse; a singer and performer who makes easy jokes and laughs a lot. Veronika feels a little awkward around her, too stilted and shy, but Lohse cares very little about that and just hooks her arm through Veronika’s and drags her along.

And there are more - a red lizard who wants to be a king, a pirate dwarf looking to best an old enemy, an elf assassin out for revenge, and an undead scholar looking to understand more of the world.

They share their stories eagerly with Veronika, despite her first bumbling attempts to befriend them, and sometimes they accompany her on her errands. Whether it’s helping locals in gathering food or fighting wild animals that make the beaches unsafe for the children.

(Her new companions are very opinionated though, which she finds a little intimidating at times.)

 _It_ _’s shameful_ , she thinks to herself. _Shameful that no one is doing anything about this. That none of the Magisters feel for the downtrodden as we do. That they live like this, in squalor and danger._

She finds him, again, too - the gruff man with the kind eyes.

Two thugs are bullying a young elf on the square, near the statue of the Divine.

Veronika, barely out of earshot, cringes at their crass language and offensive insults. She turns, watching the two berate the girl in their colorful language, and then she spots him walking in on the situation.

He’s all dangerous smiles and intense gazes, rolling up his sleeves to reveal muscled forearms covered in scars, both old and new.

“Just stand aside, why don’tcha, mate,” one of the thugs spits out, feathers ruffled by Ifan’s presence. “This is no business of yours.”

Ifan stares the man down. “Lone Wolves decide their own business,” he says tersely.

Veronika feels a rush of anxiety and tenses up.

 _He_ _’s doing good, as more people should do_.

She bites her lip. She knows she should stand by him. Values are important, and she absolutely doesn’t condone what’s happening there with the young elf girl.

Steeling herself and squaring her jaw, she stands up slowly, and moves to stand next to Ifan.

(It takes a lot of courage.)

The thugs stare at her in surprise, and Veronika realizes she doesn’t look very intimidating, especially not when compared to the big man beside her. She’s short, slender - but still, she thins her mouth into a sharp line and frowns at the largest of the thugs.

Gathers magic in her fingers just in case.

“Go away,” she says as sternly as she can, clenching her fists.

There’s a brief silence while the thugs assess the threat, looking both Veronika and Ifan up and down, and then the tension breaks.

“Ah, get out of here,” the biggest of the two grunts, shaking his head. “The both of ye. Ye ain’t worth the sweat of my brow anyhow…”

They turn and walk away, annoyed - and apparently, intimidated to some degree.

The elf girl releases her breath in a happy sigh before turning towards Ifan and Veronika, smiling. She takes their hands in hers, introducing herself as Elodi, and thanks them heartily for standing up to her.

Veronika feels a little awkward, put on the spot like that, but Elodi is so very sweet that it immediately eases her nerves. She squeezes the elf’s hands back, smiling up at her.

Elodi gives them the coordinates to a small cave out on the beach before she leaves, explaining that she usually stays there with a small tribe of other elves. And now, of course, Ifan and Veronika will always be welcome.

After all of that, Veronika finally turns to meet Ifan’s eyes.

“Good work, good work,” he says immediately, a shadow of a smile on his face. He claps her heavily on the shoulder, and her frame sinks a little under his hand.

“I can tell you’ve got chops. Veronika, was it?” he asks, tone inquisitive.

She manages a small nod, still feeling a little overwhelmed. If anything, she thinks she has a lack of what he calls ‘chops’.

“Yeah,” she answers, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “We met on the ship before… Before it sank.”

His smile morphs into a clever grin. “No longer seasick, I hope? Fresh air of Fort Joy do you some good?”

“Please don’t remind me of that,” Veronika cringes, looking away and hiding her face behind her hand.

Ifan laughs, rolling his sleeves back down. “Let’s start again, then,” he says, holding out one rough hand to shake hers.

It makes Veronika smile despite her shyness. She takes his hand in her own, nodding. “Okay.”

“Ifan ben-Mezd,” he says, shaking her hand _hard_ , “nice to meet you.”

She tries to grip his hand back just as tightly. “Veronika,” she answers.

He crosses his arms over his broad chest, giving her an amused look-over. “Listen,” he continues, “I could use someone to watch my back. Looks like you could use someone to watch yours. How about we stick together until we get out of this place?”

The sudden offer catches her off-guard. “Together?” she echoes, eyebrows raised. “You think I could have your back?”

Ifan gestures back to the thugs with his thumb. “You had just now, didn’t you? Besides, I can feel it.”

He leans forward and a little closer, eyes crinkling at the sides. “You’ve got some magic in you. Whatever it is, it’s powerful.”

Veronika feels her cheeks heat, blinking at his close proximity. “I - well - I’m,” she stutters, looking up at him.

He stands tall, big and looming. Tone friendly, and yet an edge of something… deadly. Like how he just walked up to those thugs and demanded that they stopped harassing Elodi.

Veronika’s thoughts are a mess.

( _I can count his eyelashes_ , she realizes.)

He seems to notice, backing away a bit. “No need to worry,” he jokes. “I won’t steal it from you.”

“I’m a witch,” Veronika blurts out, instantly regretting the words as they drop from her mouth.

Ifan’s eyebrows raise up to his hairline. “Well,” he says, “you certainly don’t hear that every day.”

She knows her face must be colored crimson by now. “I’m sorry,” she says, “it’s - it’s just - ”

“You won’t steal my heart and eat it, I hope?” Ifan teases, a playful twinkle to his eye.

Veronika scoffs, trying to hide her blush.

“Well, I,” she starts, protesting incredulously at his easy jibe. “I’d never - you don’t understand. It’s difficult, being able to… to do what I can do. Stealing people’s lifeforce and putting it to another purpose.”

She trails off and looks down, arms hanging motionless at her sides. “It’s hard to be accepted for it,” she adds, quieter.

“Ah, well,” Ifan says with a light shrug of his shoulders. “Nobody’s perfect. I’m a mercenary looking to kill someone myself, if it matters to you.”

Veronika’s eyes widen. “What? W-Who?” she stutters.

Ifan’s eyes grow dim, his grin laced with darkness, and now she sees the predator in full view. Prowling, going in for the kill; ruthless, dangerous, and single-minded. One goal, and one only.

“Why not help each other?” he deflects, raising an eyebrow while he cracks his knuckles.

His teeth glitter in the midday sun, sharp and pointed over his lower lip.

Veronika feels a flash of anger. “Tell me,” she says, voice shaky while she pulls at his right arm. “I’m not helping you kill innocents. That’s - that’s a bridge too far!”

Ifan stares down at her in surprise, as if she’s a tiny little thing demanding an immovable object to move her way.

(And maybe she is. It certainly feels that way.)

“Do you really want to know?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“ _Yes_ ,” says Veronika, face red and angry, and she punches his scarred arm. “Yes.”

He snorts, and the callous mercenary is back. “Bishop Alexandar,” he says, voice light and almost flippant.

Veronika stares at him as if he’s grown a second head.

He reaches back, patting a satchel at his hip. “I’ve got the contract right here.”

Veronika’s voice is loud enough to make the birds on the square scatter and fly off.

“You’re going to do _what_?!” she exclaims.

Ifan winces, holding out his palms towards her. “Easy there,” he says. “I’m a mercenary. It’s my _job_.”

The string of curses that keeps bubbling up out of her mouth is almost as bad as when she threw up right after they met on the ship. Sometimes Veronika simply can’t help it.

Ifan stares at her oddly, like he didn’t just admit that he’s a killer.

He doesn’t look like one now, either, all calming hand gestures and no dark lines to his expression.

But his tally is over forty, and his hands are almost too comfortable as they rest on the handle of his weapon.

Veronika presses a hand to her forehead in resignation, sighing.

“No other assassinations,” she tells him matter-of-factly, waving a finger in his face. “No – no more killing unless we’re defending ourselves.”

Ifan looks a little stunned at that, but nods nonetheless. “That sounds reasonable,” he says. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Veronika sighs, turning on her heel and walking away. She still has an errand to run for Sebille, after all, and no time to deal with teasing mercenaries who are too tall for their own good.

She refuses to admit that she’s flustered.

From the shadow behind her, she can tell that Ifan follows her, his long strides easily keeping up with her fast pace.

 _I hope I’m making the right choice in trusting him_ , she thinks. _I really hope I am._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Had fun reading? Please consider clicking the kudos button! It means a lot to me ♥♥**


	3. Creeping Attraction

**Chapter 3**

**In which the witch wants to do good things, but just ends up _wanting_ instead.**

 

The rest of the journey is an awkward, tumultuous wreck from one battle to the next.

Every step a little closer to escaping Fort Joy, and yet every step a little further from civilization.

Veronika is glad for her newfound friends; their companionship is a comfort, and their skills in battle are almost a necessity. She has no idea how she could ever have faced all the dangers of Reaper’s Isle on her own, and she feels like she also profoundly lacks the smartness of a clever tongue for bartering and diplomatic solutions.

She’s always been more of a scholar, anyway. She had to, hidden away in the forest since she was a kid, her parents hiding her blood magic from the rest of the world.

It’s strange, though - not hiding it anymore.

Running into battle with her magic blazing, pulsing around her like a forcefield. Strengthening herself and her companions through her own blood and that of her enemies’, leeching their power away from under their feet.

Slashing a dagger over her own palm so she can use the spells she knows best.

She expected her companions to complain or raise their hackles about it, but they never do.

(Maybe it’s because she saves their lives several times. Or because they all have their own skeletons in the closet; Fane certainly does. But it doesn’t matter, really - because in the end, they _accept_ her as she is.)

Veronika still isn’t sure how they’re ever going to kill Bishop Alexandar (nor if she endorses the act, really), but she isn’t sure about a lot of things.

Things that include finding and murdering the Master, searching for the Red Princess, following the Deathfog trail back to its original source, banishing a demon, and trying to find out what happened to an ancient, immortal race from beyond time.

She’ll be happy if they escape, first.

Ifan still embodies an odd sort of duality to her, and gets under her skin like none of the other companions do. It prickles at the back of her neck, as if he’s sunk his claws into the flesh there.

It’s primarily the way in which he seems so at ease with his own nature - both the killing and the gentleness within him.

He lives without apology, without any regard for what people might think of him. The same hands that have killed over forty people take care of their own little party; he distributes hugs as well as he distributes snacks, and always has a smile and a nice tale for any of them at the ready.

His clever tongue intimidates as well as it persuades, even soothing the attitude of the grumpiest of merchants.

When they finally discover the location of Ifan’s contact ( _Zaleskar_ , Veronika reminds herself) through one of the Magisters, the Lone Wolf seems happy and excited. Ready for the hunt.

And Veronika is pleased at what he did – no bloodshed, no fight, like she asked him to do. No unnecessary casualties. So tries to compliment him, albeit a little awkwardly, and somehow that ends in disaster.

“Uh,” she starts, running her fingers through her dark hair, “I think – you did good. I mean, the way you took care of that.”

Ifan smirks. “You did, did you?” he half-laughs, and there’s _just_ this edge of sharpness to his smile. A challenge to the tone of his voice.

( _Oh no_ , Veronika thinks.)

Before she can react, he’s swaggering over to her with an exaggerated sway of his hips. His eyes rake over her, and though she knows it’s meant to be a reenactment of what Ifan did to the Magister only moments before, it absolutely does _not_ feel that way.

Ifan only stops until they’re standing nose to nose, him towering over her, green eyes bright as he looks down. There’s a playful twinkle in his eyes, and he wets his lips.

Veronika can catch his scent on the wind when he’s as close as he is now: earth and musk with a tinge of pure wilderness.

“You mean like this?” he asks, voice rough and low.

Veronika stares up at him, unblinking, all the words she could say fizzling away like bubbles in her mouth.

He’s so close she could kiss him; she can feel the heat of his body, the warmth of his breath. His knuckles brush against her arm.

She lets her eyes travel over his lips, swallowing. “I,” she says, throat dry, “I want - ”

Ifan promptly breaks the moment, booping her on the nose and barking out a laugh.

It shakes her from her thoughts so badly that she recoils a little, staring at him in surprise.

( _… you. I want you._ )

Ifan is still laughing, clapping her on the shoulder in mirth, but Veronika feels like she’d rather disappear into a hole in the ground right now than face him.

She finds an excuse halfway through the conversation that follows, quickly walking way while she rubs at her warm cheeks in mock annoyance.

 _He has no business doing that_ , she thinks, _while being so handsome._

Veronika has lived an isolated life up until now, and she certainly isn’t used to falling for people. There weren’t many of them to come across while she wandered the woods around her home – maybe the odd stray traveler, or children playing in the meadows.

The mercenaries that she _did_ see were quick to pass through, looking either for their contracts or the nearest inn. They never lingered or stayed, and they certainly didn’t seek out company.

Ifan doesn’t make it any easier on her, of course. As a matter of fact, it only gets harder – because apparently this scruffy, stray man that she picked up is a very affectionate person.

He leans into her space whenever they talk, bumping shoulders or hips as they walk together, a light-hearted clap of his hand on her shoulder whenever he laughs. Somehow, he’s always touching her, and everything about him feels… effortless. Easy.

It makes him all the more attractive, and he doesn’t seem to be aware of the effect he has on her.

How he laughs, head thrown back and throat exposed, open and free.

(She carefully watches the curve of his throat and the dip of his clavicle, and it never fails to make her blush.)

How he scans the horizon for Voidwoken or other enemies, green eyes narrowed and gaze sharp, one arm shielding his eyes from the sun, and his shirt _always_ rides up.

(Veronika pretends not to look but she _does_ , eyes drawn to the sharp V of his hipbones and the trail of hair leading down tantalizingly beyond the edge of his trousers.)

How he watches their campfire at night, and then his eyes and teeth will glitter dangerously as he regards her, all warm in the glow of the firelight.

(She wonders how he would look if he’d advance on her; crawl towards her side of the fire, chin dipping for a kiss.)

How he fletches the arrows for his crossbow, fingers slow and deft over the shafts, and he’ll wink at her as she walks by.

(And who _wouldn_ _’t_ ask themselves how those hands would feel on your skin, skillful and full of intent?)

Of course, Veronika knows how it all works.

You find someone you like, someone whose company you enjoy; both in and out of the bedroom. Maybe you marry, maybe you stay together without tying the knot. But you kiss and you laugh and you touch each other’s hearts, and you try to stay with each other for as long as life allows it.

She has parents, and _books_. She’s not completely oblivious.

(Some books had drawings. She certainly enjoyed that, though she always kept them hidden under a loose floorboard beneath her bed.)

But she’s never _had_ it, for herself.

A lover or a partner. Not like that.

She’s never felt butterflies in her stomach; she’s never been held in someone’s arms under the moonlight, naked beneath the sheets. The closest she’s had to all of that was a stray farm boy she kissed, once, because he looked so pretty on his back on the field of flowers they played in together.

First on the cheek, then on the lips. But not much more.

A witch in a little cottage in the forest doesn’t usually have someone they love, now do they?

All she knows is her own desire on the many lonely nights, her fingers curling between her thighs. The books with the drawings she liked the most on her nightstand, pages open, and all of it ending with a rush of breath and pleasure.

But she’s never shared that with someone else.

Ifan is the first to give that desire a focus, to draw it to him like a font of magic.

It’s both exhilarating and frightening.

But Veronika has little time to ponder the course of her interest in him as the days pass by, filled with scavenging for food, scraps of information, and trying to pick their right battles. So she just watches him from under her lashes over the width of the fire, heat coiling in her belly, and tries not to think about what her attraction means too often.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagine living in the woods for all of your life and then you suddenly meet ifan ben-mezd. i'd be as thirsty as veronika to be honest.
> 
> **If you're enjoying reading this fic, please consider leaving kudos! Thank you so much :) ♥**


	4. Amadia's Sanctuary [nsfw]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was partially inspired by the art of the amazingly talented [Drathe](https://twitter.com/Drathe90); specifically, [this piece](http://drathe.tumblr.com/post/162359308214/ifan-ben-mezd-the-lone-wolf-the-ultimate-bae) (slightly nsfw).
> 
> This chapter itself is also nsfw. Enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

**In which the witch becomes the watcher while the wolf shows himself off.**

 

They eventually escape Fort Joy, Magisters hot on their heels, landing themselves in the Hollow Marshes.

Somehow, it seems like the swamp is an even worse place to be in than the fort.

The flowers here don’t grow swiftly to catch the sun on their blooms, looking to spread their seeds and scent on the wind – no, they spit poison and acid, blocking the few paths that wind throughout the Marshes.

Between Voidwoken, undead cultists, and other terrifying remnants of the time of Braccus Rex, Veronika barely has any time to be fascinated with Ifan and his handsome face.

Even with the skills of all her talented new friends, she finds that she soon becomes an asset to their group in battles. She can turn the tide with a flick of her dagger or a twirl of her staff – and as much as she can cripple their enemies, she can also heal her companions.

They appreciate her for it, Lohse flashing quick smiles during the heat of battle, and Beast grinning back at her in admiration as they combine their talents to take a clustered group of undead down.

Veronika nods back at them, smiling shyly.

It feels _nice_ , to be useful like this, after an eternity of hiding away in the forest – even if she did always enjoy her quiet life beneath the trees.

In a hidden enclave in the Marshes, breathing beauty and peace in the harsh landscape, they come across the Seekers in their Sanctuary of Amadia. The statue of the goddess is a serene focal point of the Seekers’ camp, calming all who draw near to the pool of her tears.

From there on out, their way off the island winds into a clearer path, and it makes them all breathe a little easier. Find a ship, board it, and sail away. That’s as clear as a solution as any.

Not to mention that the Seekers are _good_ people, and Veronika wants to help them reach their goals. Gareth’s heart is in the right place.

And so they stick around.

“Could you take a bath in Amadia’s holy… swimming pool?” Lohse asks the morning after their arrival, elbowing Veronika’s side.

It’s still early; Gratiana is not at her usual spot near Amadia’s statue, and most of the Seekers are still asleep in their tents. Having bunked together for the night, Veronika and Lohse are standing by their own tent, faces still a little heavy with sleep.

Lohse wrinkles her nose in disgust as she bends down to smell at her own armpit. “’Cause I could _really_ use one.”

Veronika laughs quietly. “Lohse,” she says, a slight warning to her tone, “it’s right in the center of the camp. Plus, wouldn’t it be…”

Sebille joins them then, crossing her arms. “Disrespectful?” the elf offers, raising one eyebrow.

“Na-ah,” Lohse says, the word drawn out. “It’s probably more disrespectful to stay filthy. And there are no bathtubs in this camp at all! Great gods above or below, I can’t even find a proper river.”

She purses her mouth, looking very downtrodden. “It’s either skeletons, severed heads, or poison. Amadia’s watery incline seems the best bet.”

Sebille just gives her a flat stare. “Is that truly the best you could come up with? ‘Watery incline’?”

Lohse shrugs, shooting Sebille a sunny laugh. “Hey, it’s still early. But I like that you like it.”

“I don’t,” Sebille says, eyes narrowing.

“You _do_ ,” Lohse sing-songs, fluttering her lashes in Sebille’s direction. “You absolutely do!”

Veronika smiles, shaking her head, and leans down to check the pot of water she’s got boiling on a small fire nearby. All of them do better with morning tea, and she likes to keep to some of her original habits.

The motion puts the pool of Amadia’s tears right into her line of view.

… as does the person currently in it.

The words leave her mouth before she’s even aware of them.

“Oh no,” Veronika whispers over the fire, and Sebille and Lohse instantly stop teasing each other – the former looking alarmed and the latter looking vaguely interested.

“Did you drop the pot?” Lohse asks, squatting down next to Veronika. “Oh,” she says then, eyebrows raising to her hairline as her gaze drops lower.

Sebille stares at the two of them, her initial alarm having made way for slight disinterest. Still, she concedes.

“Shall I see for myself rather than ask the two of you?” she asks dryly, before bending her spindly legs and lowering her viewpoint.

All three of them stay silent.

“Ah,” says Sebille then. “It appears that you have a stray dog in your watery incline, Lohse.”

Lohse smacks her hand at Sebille’s arm. “I want to be angry at that,” she says pointedly, “but I _can’t_ , because you just made your first joke. Good on you, Sebille!”

Sebille looks from the pool back to Veronika, a knowing smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. She then pats Lohse on the shoulder, grabs her wrist, and pulls her up without any effort.

“Hey!” Lohse protests. “I wanted a cup of tea!”

Sebille drags her along. “I’ll make you one,” she says with a stern sort of finality to her tone, walking into the opposite direction of the pool with Lohse on her arm.

And Veronika?

She just _stares_ , completely captivated.

Ifan is standing below the steady stream of water from the statue, up to his hips in the water. Arms stretched behind his head, he gently threads soapy suds through the strands of his hair, chin tipped up and eyes closed.

His mouth is open in half a sigh; he looks relaxed, dreamy almost.

The water runs down the sides of his face, dripping down through his beard and over the vast expanse of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but the necklaces that adorn his throat, the largest amulet of them pressed over his sternum.

He finishes washing his hair, head tipping down again, and smooths his hands down his torso. The necklaces jangle, and the path of his hands further accentuates the smooth curve of his ribs and the jut of his hipbones.

He sighs, throat bobbing as he swallows, and one hand slides lazily below the water as he leans back against the stone. One slow flick of his wrist, then another.

Veronika’s eyes widen and she presses her palm over her mouth in shock.

Ifan’s mouth falls open on a gasp, the next upstroke of his wrist a little firmer, water cascading in little rivulets over his belly. He bites his lip, the pleasure clearly visible on his face.

Veronika is torn between utter disbelief at his lack of caring, at the way he so casually pleasures himself in full view of an entire half-sleeping camp – and her own desire.

Because this – this was never in her books.

She could never have imagined all the details; the way the water runs down his body, the way pleasure shapes a little furrow in his brow, the way his mouth curls over his hums of pleasure like a bow strung.

Heat settles in the pit of her stomach, rising thick and heady, making her fingers tremble and her cheeks heat.

Ifan presses the fist of his other hand against his mouth, muffling the groan that rises from his throat. His hand moves faster, sloshing the water over and against his hips. His arm tenses, muscles straining.

 _He’s getting close_ , Veronika thinks. _He’s right there, and I’m just_ –

He opens his eyes, gaze meeting hers.

Green meeting blue; his pupils blown, the green a bright emerald like a forest warming beneath the sun.

 _So alive_.

Veronika gasps, her mouth forming a small ‘o’ as she stares back at him, the warmth between her legs almost unbearable. She clenches her fingers on her thigh, the tea kettle before her completely forgotten.

 _I want him_ , she thinks, her heart thudding harshly beneath her ribcage.

_Have I ever wanted anyone as much as this; has it ever consumed me like this?_

He falters in his rhythm, eyes wide in surprise. “Veronika,” he breathes, looking desperate, “I – ”

What follows is a long, stuttering groan as Ifan doubles over in pleasure. His eyes flutter closed and he jerks his hand erratically below the water, chest heaving with the weight of his breaths.

She stares, still transfixed – and scared of her newfound knowledge. Scared of the pressure low in her belly; the sudden deep desire humming in her veins.

“Veronika,” Ifan repeats, looking up. His cheeks are red beneath the dark wetness of his beard, staining him with an attractive flush.

He stretches his hand out to her, and Veronika doesn’t know whether it’s an invitation or an apology.

His eyes are gentle as he looks up at her. “Listen to me, I – ”

Further away from them, someone stumbles out of a tent making a ruckus, armor plates clattering against each other over the ground. It shocks both of them, Ifan wincing at the sound, and it breaks the spell over Veronika.

She blinks, rising back to her feet and dashing away, tearing her eyes from Ifan in the pool of the Sanctuary.

She doesn’t turn back, not wanting to see his face – not wanting to know whether it’s disappointment or relief. All she knows is that these feelings have surfaced at the _most_ opportune time; they’re at war, they’re stuck on an island in the middle of nowhere, they don’t know each other yet –

( _Excuses_ , says a voice in her head, _excuses; you’re just afraid what will happen if you say yes, if you give in -_ )

Veronika shakes the thoughts from her head, walking all the way to the very edge of the camp with unsteady legs. Her mind runs in circles.

She always _was_ afraid of the unknown if it got too close to home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... it was really tempting to call this chapter "Masturbation in the Marshes" and i almost did! sorry guys
> 
> ifan in the water is just an Extreme Thirst and veronika doesnt know how to deal
> 
>  
> 
> **Also enjoyed your favorite wolf splashin'? Please consider slamming down on that kudos button! I appreciate ya ♥**


	5. Speaking with Silence

**Chapter 5**

**In which the witch and the wolf _finally_ have a discussion about it, though not without blushing.**

 

They don’t discuss it, initially.

Nothing beyond vague, lingering glances, and awkward silences. There’s a slow hesitation in the way Ifan approaches her now, hand hovering stiffly before he places it on her shoulder in greeting, and it eats at Veronika in the most uncomfortable of ways.

Makes her fidget her hands in her lap, twisting and turning the hem of her shirt, and makes her _not_ want to think about him at night. But the images force themselves behind her eyelids unbidden, and her mind enhances them without much thought – puts her in the water with him, against him, under him and over him.

And that, of course, makes it even more difficult to face him day by day without broaching the subject.

But too much happens to them anyway – nary a quiet moment to themselves, never enough time for Veronika to find her courage and ask.

Ask if he wanted her to join him, ask him what they can do about how much she wants him.

(She has ideas. But he probably has clever ones, too.)

Ifan almost brings up the subject on a misty morning, when he helps her climb over a large rock outcropping. His hand lingers on hers, thumb brushing her wrist, and it immediately makes Veronika’s breath hitch.

He opens his mouth, barely touching the first word of a sentence, but it flutters away as he lets her hand slip from his grasp, turning back towards the trail before them.

Veronika clears her throat.

Ifan doesn’t look back.

“Do you,” she tries, staring at his broad back, “I mean – don’t you ever get lonely, on the road?”

He stops dead in his tracks, and Veronika bumps into him, rubbing at her nose. When he turns back to look at her, his face is vulnerable and hesitant.

“Ah,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “Lonely?” he repeats, looking thoughtful. “I wouldn’t think so. I went from life in the regiment to life in the pack to life on the road with you.”

A pause and he stops to take in the view, one hand resting on his hip. “I haven’t had time to be lonely,” he muses semi-innocently, but his cheeks flush.

Veronika carefully takes a step closer until she’s standing side-by-side with him.

Now it’s his turn to clear his throat. “Unless,” he starts, turning to look at her, “uh, wait, what did you mean exactly?”

“You looked lonely last time,” Veronika says, very quietly, eyes darting away from him.

Ifan blushes fiercely, scuffling his boot awkwardly on the ground. “I,” he says on a deep sigh, “I didn’t – I meant no disrespect, last time. You caught me unawares. I’ve wanted to apologize for it, but I don’t know how.”

He hangs his head a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was more than a little crass. Presumptuous, too,” he mutters.

Veronika thinks of all her own lonely nights and squares her shoulders.

“I liked it,” she says.

Ifan’s head turns towards her so fast that she thinks he might have cracked his spine.

She turns her body towards him, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I don’t – don’t know you that well. And it’s…” she trails off before looking back at him again. “Well, it’s war. But I like you. I just don’t – don’t do fast.”

She pauses, offering him a hesitant smile; despite her insecurities, it needs to be said. She needs to be able to take her time, so she can figure out how to accommodate her life to another person in it. To take small steps with someone who respects that.

“We can do slow,” Ifan answers, voice a little hoarse suddenly. “Get to know each other first.”

( _Slow_ , Veronika’s mind echoes, and it conjures up an image of them entwined, Ifan groaning in her ear and his hips circling torturously slow between her thighs, eddying back and forth like the tide, his mouth on her throat, sucking a mark - )

She flushes brightly, nodding. “Yes,” she croaks. “Slow.”

Ifan smiles, understated and sincere. He pats her on the back, a squeeze on her arm, and nods too. “Yeah. Let’s escape this hellhole first and kill Alexandar. Come on.”

He picks up on the trail with a brisk pace, giving heed to the voices of Fane and the Red Prince clamoring in the front why the backline is taking so long to catch up. Sebille murmurs something about water.

Veronika follows, dress swishing behind her, silently smiling to herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If you're having a good time reading this, you'd really make my day by leaving kudos :) thank you! ♥**


	6. Land Ahoy

**Chapter 6**

**In which the witch and her companions discover they are would-be gods and finally find themselves on the continent.**

 

From Fort Joy into the Hollow Marshes, and from there onto the open seas of Rivellon. They may or may not have succeeded in killing Alexandar, despite having seen him fall – but Voidwoken get in the way, as always, and of course boarding a Magister ship is never going to go as planned.

Veronika watches, blue eyes bright and wide, as Dallis the Hammer and her cronies descend upon them – her hair whipping through the wind and rain, skin dirty with ash and blood. She clutches onto her staff with all her might, fighting side-by-side with her companions.

They survive, somehow – and only because the clever half-demon half-elf woman takes them to another realm. One of death, ghosts, and gods.

Veronika has never wanted to stand out, and Rhalic’s arrogant and demanding focus makes her feel uncomfortable in the worst of ways. She didn’t know that gods could be like this; much like a child putting their foot down, not taking no for an answer.

She says little, dodging his answers and wishing for a way out of that awful place. He lets her, eventually, and Veronika makes no promises.

Because she could never kill a companion; a friend. Not even for a god, especially not a foolish one making demands from another realm. No matter the Source flowing in her veins, nor the Divinity at her fingertips.

 _Never_.

But… to be a Godwoken.

It clings to her skin and it won’t let her go; uncomfortable, odd, like clothing that’s just a tad too tight.

She doesn’t want to think about it too much, but it could explain so many things – why her magic has always been so strong, despite it not being in the family. Why she’s always felt different from others, and how there beats something in her body that senses strength in those around her.

(Veronika also wonders whether it was _this_ , the Godwoken thing, that she recognized in Ifan and he in her when they first met. But she doesn’t bring the subject up with him; it’s still too new, too heavy, dragging on her like the collar she’s only just gotten rid of.)

All of her companions meet their gods, too – and none of them are particularly positive about it.

 _Only one_ , hisses Rhalic in her ear. _There can be only one, and it must be you._

Veronika resolutely shakes her head, banishing his voice.

 _Never_ , she repeats to herself, _never_.

Again, it’s Malady who takes them back to where they came from and out of the distant, pale dream that is the Hall of Echoes. Back to the real world, where the sun burns bright on teal waves, and the air tastes like salt and _life_.

They cross the remainder of the ocean, reaching the Reaper’s Coast, and anchor the Lady Vengeance near the town of Driftwood.

(That’s another one of those things – the ship they boarded is one of lifewood with a dragon for a bulkhead, and she _talks_. Veronika still feels a little dazzled by that, and the fact that the poor dear was once an elf. Enslaved by Dallis; the mere thought makes her shudder. Ships usually aren’t that high up on the list of people Veronika wants to save, but the Lady Vengeance now is.)

Once they settle, Malady recommends that they make for the home of Siva, Meistr of the Seekers, to learn more of their newfound power.

More of what it means to be Godwoken.

Veronika is curious, and at the same time she doesn’t really want to dive into it.

 _What if it grows unbearable?_ she thinks, staring down at her hands. _What if it grows beyond my control?_

But her companions need to master it as much as she does, and thus they head towards the shore.

Driftwood is a quaint little village, reminding her of the ones she always saw in the storybooks she had on hand – thatched roofs, wooden verandas, and here and there a bit of solid masonry for the bigger buildings. Some trees scattered on the town square and on the outskirts, and a few roads leading off into fields and forests.

It would be a lot more welcoming if it weren’t for the overwhelming Magister presence, the gallows outside of town, and the terrible smell coming from the docks.

And then it turns out that Meistr Siva cannot help them, cut away from her Source as she is.

She places a task before them, though: search out powerful Sourcerers, learn their tricks, and then use that newfound knowledge to increase their own power. There are a number of those Sourcerers, apparently, scattered around the Reaper’s Coast – but not all of them friendly, and certainly not all of them good.

It seems like they can never catch a break.

“Frick,” says Veronika to no one in particular as they leave the Meistr’s house, shaking her head.

Lohse stops her instantly, one hand on her arm. “Did you just say _frick_?” she asks, one eyebrow raised. “Did I hear that right? Did you just really, truly, unironically - ”

“Yes,” Ifan interrupts somewhat tiredly, “she does. When we first met, that was all that would come out.”

Veronika stares at them, crossing her arms. “What would I say otherwise?” she asks, eyebrow raised. “It’s not like it’s polite to…” she trails off, noticing the look that passes between Ifan and Lohse.

Beast smiles, patting Veronika’s leg. “I think yer a very sweet lass,” he nods at her. “Don’t let anyone tell ye otherwise.”

“Oh yes, of course!” Lohse says immediately. “I mean, yes. Very sweet. Quite innocent. Lovely!”

Veronika narrows her eyes at all of them. “Are you making fun of me?” she asks, looking from Lohse to Ifan and back again.

Ifan offers her a hesitant laugh, tugging at one of his necklaces. “Why, uh, no. It’s just that you – well, it’s.” He pauses, and then jerks his head towards Beast. “Beast is right. You’re a nice person.”

Sebille, watching them from a little way off, sighs deeply. “My dear girl,” she says, interrupting the rest of them, “you should just say _fuck_.”

“No!” says Lohse, jumping in to cover Veronika’s ears.

“Too late,” murmurs the Red Prince. “What a missed opportunity to keep the innocent as they are.”

“I think I would rather like to keep notes on swear words as well,” Fane observes, chin leaning on his finger. “They _are_ quite varied, after all.”

Veronika feels the flush rise to her cheeks. “It’s rude!” she says to Sebille, as if that should explain it.

The elf raises an eyebrow. “I thought that was rather the point,” she answers matter-of-factly, studying her nails.

Ifan can’t hide his smile in time, and Veronika shakes her head at him, slightly offended.

“I’m not going to say…” she starts.

“Fuck?” Sebille supplies again, innocently.

Veronika stomps away towards the center of the town and refuses to look back.

Her companions follow, of course, and their newest in-joke becomes trying to lure proper swearwords out of Veronika while Fane writes them down. It makes her blush and it makes Lohse cackle in delight, but it doesn’t work out entirely.

(Not yet.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Had a good time reading this fic so far? Please consider leaving kudos, thank you! ♥**


	7. Spirit Companion

**Chapter 7**

**In which the witch shows her first talents as a wolf tamer.**

 

Driftwood holds more secrets than Veronika had initially expected for a small village on the coast.

In-between shady people hiding out in barrels of fish, murdered Magisters being served in the local tavern as stew, and Source Hounds barking up at about every tree, it’s a miracle that they navigate themselves through the area relatively unscathed.

(It also makes Veronika have strong doubts about living anywhere else than a small cottage in the woods. _Ever_. Apparently, civilization has curious downsides she’s never even considered, and they’re not of the friendly variety.)

Slowly, they all settle in a routine that involves slowly exploring the Reaper’s Coast. Trying to do right by its people, and trying to find Sourcerers to learn from.

Though they can rest easily aboard the Lady Vengeance, they sometimes book a few rooms at _The Black Bull_ now that it’s free of human stew. It enables them to start their day earlier and make longer treks out into the wilds before they all grow exhausted.

Veronika’s days are mostly spent figuring out secrets, helping people out, and testing her mettle against beast and man alike. Also, farm animals are apparently in as much need of rescuers as humans, dwarves, elves, lizards, and undead are – they help anything from chickens to stray dogs.

The trick that Meistr Siva taught them, however, gives Veronika headaches for days.

It’s weird and hazy, to suddenly have spirits blink in and out of your vision – not of their own accord, not because they have unfinished business or are trying to get your attention, but simply by enhancing your own focus.

They wander the world, these little lost souls, and Veronika feels terrible farming them for information without being able to help them move on. It also makes her feel deeply anxious; every location she goes to becomes a possibility, another guessing game.

Another time to use up her Source as she squints her eyes against the glare of the day-to-day world and tries to find the ghosts in the cracks.

It happens again as they step into another decrepit, desolate farm in the countryside; bookshelves and tables dusty, curtains drawn. Veronika’s own hands hesitant on the wood of the doorframe while Fane checks the back for the presence of any living creatures.

It still gives her a headache, but she reaches for the power nonetheless.

“Gone,” says Fane, stepping back around the home, brushing some stray leaves off of the hem of his coat.

Veronika sighs, narrowing her focus.

The home stays empty and silent; no spirits hiding within the small space. The carved, wooden cuckoo clock on the nearby wall is still ticking, though there’s no one left anymore to track its time.

“They must’ve left in a hurry,” Sebille murmurs, looking into the cottage over Veronika’s shoulder. She eyes the drawers in the kitchen, half-open, and a few drag marks near the door.

“The heavier things are still there, but their clothes and a few kitchen knives appear to be missing,” she adds.

On Veronika’s other side, the Red Prince crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side. “Pah,” he answers. “From one plebian to another, I suppose. _Kitchen knives_.”

Sebille raises a sharp eyebrow his way. “Need I remind you what I can do with my needle? Your average plebian has a lot of uses for a kitchen knife.” She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Such as cracking lobsters’ shells.”

“Hmm,” the Red Prince hums, with a _tone_ , so Veronika sighs and steps away from the two of them.

Both towering over her, they’ve made a habit of staring each other off with her standing in-between them as some sort of final line of defense. But today, Veronika’s not having it.

She turns away from the doorframe, rolling her shoulders against the tension that’s been creeping into them.

“Hey, Chief,” Lohse says gently, touching Veronika’s arm. “You all right?”

Veronika nods, offering Lohse what she hopes looks like a genuine smile. “Let’s take a break here,” she says, gesturing towards the meadows and fields surrounding the farm. “The weather’s nice, and we all deserve a moment to…”

“Catch!” Beast calls, swinging something her way and interrupting her.

He winks as she catches the ripe red apple he throws her, taking a bite of his own. It makes Veronika truly smile, this time, as she turns the fruit around in her hands.

If the mood had been light and if their quest had been one of fun, Veronika could’ve called it a picnic, the way they gather to take a bite of food – even though there’s no red-and-white plaid on the grass, and they don’t really sit around as one whole group.

Sebille, as always, remains vigilant, taking point on a fence nearby to overlook the road. She skins the apple Beast gave her with precision, needle tucked behind her ear.

Ifan, Fane, and Lohse lean back against that same fence while Beast plonks himself down on the grass. Ifan’s hip flask gets passed along a good deal, too – something stronger amidst all the waterskins they’ve carried for themselves.

The Red Prince stands further off from the group like Sebille, arms crossed over the breadth of his chest, keeping an eye on the other side of the road.

Veronika takes a moment to herself, too, eating her apple while she stares off into the faint blue horizon. They’ve been lucky with the weather so far – mostly sunny, with a few cloudy days, but no heavy rains. Perfect settings for exploring, even if you do have to take enough water along.

The apple is a little sour, but she appreciates it. The tangy taste of it makes her feel more alive.

The spirits of the dead still linger on her mind, but Veronika’s also already realized – some time ago – that you can’t help everyone. She always wants to be good, always wants to do the right thing, but one small witch in the entirety of Rivellon can’t simply make the world right for all the thousands of ghosts in it.

She shudders to think what the Bane Lands of the elves must look like when viewed with Spirit Vision.

“Coin for your thoughts?” a gentle voice rumbles behind her, and Veronika doesn’t have to turn around to see who it is.

Ifan settles comfortably next to her, forearms leaning on the fence. He gives her a warm, lopsided smile when their eyes meet, offering his hip flask up to her.

Veronika smiles back, gently shaking her head. “It’s nothing too big,” she murmurs. “I just – so many lonely spirits out there, you know? And now we can suddenly see them.”

“Yeah,” Ifan nods, taking a swig of his ale before putting the flask back on his belt. “I know what you mean. The realization – what if the world’s filled with them?”

Veronika nods solemnly. “It _is_ ,” she says, brushing her hair out of her face. She takes another deep breath, turning towards him. “I’m just trying to figure out how to deal with that reality.”

He blinks, eyes travelling over her face, and Veronika realizes he looks surprised.

“What’s wrong?” she presses, suddenly self-conscious.

He shakes his head, looking at her fondly. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s easy to forget sometimes how strong you are. I saw it that day at the fort, when you stood up against those thugs.”

He’s grinning now, regarding her with something like pride. “I said you had chops, didn’t I? And I was right. You’d go up against anything if it meant saving a few souls.”

Veronika blushes, but she doesn’t duck her head this time. The wind ruffles the skirt of her dress, and she smiles. Remembers all the battles they fought to get to this point, and how useful her skills have been.

“Yes,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I would.”

It’s the truth.

Ifan nods, and his grin softens. He reaches out, slowly, and his fingers brush her arm.

It happens still, these charged moments between them – they promised to take it slow and they’ve kept that promise, oftentimes too exhausted by current events to do anything about it. So they’re like little gifts interspersed in Veronika’s daily life; a look that lingers or a hug that lasts a tad longer than usual.

But from the twinkle in Ifan’s eyes, she gathers that he’s about to either tease her or ask her something.

“Interested in seein’ a happy spirit?” he asks with a wink.

Veronika catches on instantly. “Oh, your wolf?” she asks, beaming at him. “Please do! He looks amazing. I haven’t seen him around that often since after the collars came off, but…”

“Best damn friend a man could have,” Ifan says, affection coloring his tone, and then he’s closing his eyes and whistling, briefly.

From behind him appears a large wolf, wearily stepping around its master, eyes on Veronika. Its coat is shaggy and a little grey, much like Ifan’s own mane, and the easy comparison already makes Veronika smile.

She sinks down to the grass, reaching her hand out to pet him.

“Wouldn’t try that if I were you,” Ifan warns. “He don’t take kindly to strangers.”

Veronika blinks, staring from Ifan to the wolf behind him and back. The large beast looks dangerous, but not unfriendly, and is obviously regarding her with interest. Still, she retracts her hand but remains hunched on her knees so she can take a better look at the animal.

Its eyes are warm, brown, and feral. Inquisitive, but nothing beyond that.

Ifan smiles. “Afrit’s been howling at my side for a long time, now,” he says softly, ruffling the wolf behind his ears. “Good old boy appears every time I use Source. You should’ve seen him rampage on the days the Magisters collared me.”

The wolf claws at the grass, giving off a soft little whine at Ifan’s fingers curling through its fur.

“If you’d seen _that_ ,” Ifan says, looking proud, “you’d know to keep your fingers as far from his jaws as you could…”

Veronika tilts her head, looking up at Ifan. “I grew up in the woods,” she says matter-of-factly, turning her gaze back to the wolf. “And I’ve been on my own for a while. I know a predator when I see one.”

Ifan crosses his arms, grinning. “And you think Afrit isn’t one?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

The wolf sniffs the air around Veronika, taking another step closer.

“No,” Veronika says, reaching her hand back out again towards the animal, “I think he absolutely is.” She smiles up at Ifan then. “You confused me, you know, when I got to know you. The big bad mercenary, and yet… also so very kind.”

His face colors and he dips his chin, trying to hide his blush. “Ah,” he says, “well, I – ”

“I think Afrit and you are very much the same,” she continues, and then the wolf is sniffing at her palm.

Ifan tenses up, a hint of fear in his eyes.

Veronika remains where she is, quietly regarding the animal while it steps a little closer, paws hesitant on the grass. His muzzle is soft against her fingers and he keeps advancing until he can catch some of the scent closer to her throat.

“Afrit,” Ifan says, a warning tone, “don’t you – ”

Veronika holds up her other hand into the direction of Ifan, palm raised, and he shuts up promptly.

She stares deeply into Afrit’s eyes, and then the tension of the moment snaps like a bow.

The wolf steps into the circle of her arms at the same moment she curls her fingers to scratch behind his ears, and then she’s suddenly toppling over into the grass with a huge wolf enthusiastically licking at her cheeks.

“Oh,” she gasps, scratching her fingers through his thick fur. “Look at you!”

Afrit yelps, pressing his snout alongside her temple, tail wagging behind him. Through the haze of her own hair and a wildly moving animal, Veronika sees snippets of Ifan’s completely dumbfounded expression.

She smooths her thumbs along his muzzle, gently wrestling to get some of the wolf’s weight off of her. “Who’s a good boy?” she croons, managing to roll them over.

Afrit growls in response, playfully nipping at her underarm. He rolls over for her all the way, then, exposing his belly, and Veronika immediately starts rubbing it. “ _You’re_ a good boy,” she laughs, carding her fingers through his thick fur. “Look at you, what a lovely little wolf.”

She looks up at Ifan, who stares at her like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and smiles. “And such pretty jaws! Just like your owner!”

The wolf is positively euphoric, alternating between letting Veronika pet his belly and rolling over again to push her into the grass. He’s playful like a young pup, obviously careful with her because of his bulk, and Veronika herself hasn’t had this much fun in days.

She coos at him, running her fingers through its shaggy mane.

“Well,” Ifan eventually mumbles, scratching the back of his neck, “here’s something I never expected to see.”

Sebille walks by in the background, chucking the core of her apple away over her shoulder, and raises a single sharp eyebrow. “That’s called being wrapped around someone’s finger,” she comments dryly. “Both of you appear to be,” she adds, looking down at Afrit.

Ifan frowns at her, waving her away. “All of us are,” he groans, but his cheeks flush red – and Sebille continues walking just a tad faster, turning her face away.

Veronika sits up, with Afrit’s big head still in her lap. The wolf settles down easy, curling around her, and whines happily. She laughs, giving Ifan a look. “He’s very sweet.”

“He’s usually not this affectionate,” Ifan mutters, looking a little sheepish.

“I think he likes me,” Veronika says with a smile, petting Afrit’s head.

And then the grumbling sheepishness disappears from Ifan’s face as he looks down at the two of them; Veronika on the grass, Afrit curled up around and against her, and he smiles back.

Leans down until he’s on his knees right next to them, and presses a kiss to Veronika’s cheek. “Sebille was right,” he smiles. “I like you too.”

It happens so suddenly that Veronika barely has time to react, pressing a hand to the spot Ifan kissed in shock while he leans back. His expression is warm, eyes briefly darting down towards her lips.

She blinks at the sudden proximity, and Ifan stays where he is.

This seems like the worst sort of time to say ‘fuck’ but the word comes up in her mind, unbidden, with how much the others have been teasing her with it lately. And this is one of those moments – moments that Veronika usually simply doesn’t do.

Women like Veronika don’t end up in fields of flowers like some sort of fairytale princess in a pretty dress, with a wolf for a companion and a beautiful man planting a kiss on her cheek. And women like Veronika certainly don’t think about what it would be like if the wolf would run back off to the spirit world, her other companions would disappear, and if Rivellon wouldn’t need saving for just a moment.

Just a small moment in time.

If she’d end up flat on her back, watching the sun overhead while her knight in shining armor would kiss down the front of her dress, and lower.

Women like Veronika are witches, no matter the good they do.

But somehow, she’s ended up here – Afrit dozing in her lap, Sebille gathering the rest of their party together on the opposite side of the field, out of view, and Ifan right in front of her with the sweetest of smiles playing at his lips.

So Veronika doesn’t say fuck, because that would be rude, but she does lean in and grabs Ifan by the collar.

And presses a kiss to his lips.

Ifan makes a surprised sort of noise against her mouth, but recovers quickly – draws her in, one arm sliding around her lower back and the other around her shoulders. And then he’s angling his head and Veronika goes a little dizzy, letting herself sink into his embrace.

His beard is soft, his lips a little chapped, but she’s has never felt more alive.

Her fingers clench in the collar of his shirt when they break apart.

“Good at taming wolves, huh,” Ifan says, voice low and rough.

Veronika offers him a small smile. “I – I try to be.”

Between them, Afrit lifts his head, whines – and then fades out of existence as only spirits can do, leaving behind an empty lap. Ifan stares down at the new space between them and then he’s leaning in closer, crawling those remaining few inches over to Veronika, who wants nothing more to let herself fall back onto the grass.

( _Oh dear_ , she thinks, _it’s like I imagined – by the fire, the glint in his eyes, his movements, everything_ – )

But just as one of Ifan’s hands brushes over her thigh, Lohse’s voice is high on the wind, sharp and a little alarming.

“Oh my dearest little lovebirds,” she singsongs, “break – breaktime is over, I’m afraid. Voidwoken right around the corner, slightly off east.” A pause. “ _Big_ ones.”

Ifan rattles a very annoyed sigh and pulls Veronika up. “Let’s take first watch together, tonight?” he asks, hope coloring his voice.

In the distance, Veronika can hear the shrill, overlapping cries of several Voidwoken, and Fane chanting his first spells. The Red Prince sounds annoyed, as always.

She squeezes Ifan’s biceps and nods. “First watch,” she murmurs.

When they descend upon the Voidwoken in all their righteous, Source-filled fury, Veronika’s lips still tingle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bet you guys were thinking i was gonna wait with a kiss until the undertavern! nope, but we've got something planned for that too. also -- please don't treat your regular wolves as veronika does in this one aka don't try this at home.
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> **Kudos make the world go around! If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving them! ♥**


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